I have written my opinion of the character and poetical genius of LORD BYRON in some Letters published in London in July 1824, by Longman and C.°

Near the opening of Lara, LORD BYRON has pourtrayed his own character better perhaps than any other can pourtray it :

« In youth all action, and all life, Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife :

Promise of pleasure, peril of a grave,

In turn he tried, he ransack'd all below,

And found his recompence in joy or woe,
No trite, tame medium; for his feelings sought

In that intenseness an escape from thought:
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements have raised;
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high,
And ask'd if greater dwelt beneath the sky;
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme! »

&c., &c.

And here I will stop my pen on the subject of Lord Byron: I have said much in other places already ; and probably I shall have to say more hereafter.

- I was

I have thought on the subject, and especially on the theory, of poetry, till my head is giddy; and many will add, till my brain is turned. I began early ; a little chilled in middle life; and now that I am old the flame returns.

I see in good poetry all the virtue of moral philosophy without its dryness: but I am fastidious, and cannot allow much of what the world calls poetry to be genuine. I have given my reasons; for

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to condemn by caprice seems to me to be more than foolish; and to be even malignant. My tests of poetical merit are before the world if false, they will refute themselves if true a reference ought to be made to them; - but with candour, and every kind allowance. The difficulty of an ordeal which so few can stand, ought always to be kept in mind; and if the true spirit sometimes shines out, we ought to be indulgent to faults, and recollect how many blights and obstacles the purest flame has to encounter.

I may repeat with PHILLIPS -«of genuine and true-born poets I fear me our number would fall short. » — so short, that few of the names of this volume would retain their place! For is there one in twenty or thirty of them, who has shewn true and proper poetical invention? And withont such invention, they may be versifiers; they cannot really be poets! Writers of spritely songs, and rhymesters of pretty fancies, are wanting in all the primary constituents. They may give a sort of feeble emotion of pleasure; but they stir no great faculty.

How shall we account for the rarity of good poetry? for the infrequency with which the poetical faculty seems to have been adequately bestowed? I can hardly suppose the native gift so extremely rare it is probable that the impediments to a due cultivation of it are still more in the way of its success. The Poet not only from the moment of his appearance before the Public, but from his entrance into life, meets with the most repulsive and heart-deranging obstacles. If his senses had not been excessively quick, he would not have had the native gift; but this excessive quickness exposes them perpetually to an over-action that produces disease; and languor and disappointment are more likely to follow, than an economy of equable strength.

There is an enthusiasm in poetical genius, which never yet was exempt in early life from the feverish desire of fame: and perhaps never yet was so fortunate as not to be deeply disappointed.

On some the disappointment falls more heavily than on others, because nothing is more demonstrative, than that fame is not conferred with any reference to merit; but at best capriciously, and often in proportion to demerit. Still reason, and the lessons of literary history, cannot suppress this passion. How beautifully is this touched in the nevertiring, though ever-cited, passage of Milton's Lycidas!

« Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise,
(That last infirmity of noble minds,)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days:
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears
And slits the thin-spun life. « But not the praise,
Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears,
« Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove:
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. »

We hope that posterity will be just to us, if our cotemporaries will not! If posterity confers any fame, it will probably be just but it must be a very brilliant merit, which gains a notice from posterity that could not be excited when

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the author was living. Yet in the enthusiasm of youth we delude ourselves even with the hope of what posterity may do in old age we expect little, and should not be much cheered, even if we could assure ourselves of the future certainty. Thus it is that despondence blights so many : and delusive hope still cherishes the heat in the bosoms of a few; and urges them to put forth their uncrushed but half-ripened fruit. There is no class of genius to whom the world is so capricious and discouraging as to poets.

What will this List, and these short Characters of so many Poets, or Writers of Verses, teach us?— Little, I am afraid, but to chill our enthusiasm; and to doubt the power of that genius, in which it is so delightful to have faith.

« Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely, slighted, Shepherd's care,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? (*) »

If poetry can be successfully cultivated, and successfully executed to any extent, then it is different! But all experience proves how seldom this, for some cause or other, happens! how many alienate themselves from common concerns and unfit themselves for the ordinary duties of life; yet never reach, or even approach, that for which they made the sacrifice! Men of talents, not a little distinguished above the multitude, have yet fallen short of poets! We are al

(*) Lycidas.

ways unhappy from the attempt at what we do not accomplish. Without trial, however, who can tell what he may, or may not, be able to perform? When there was a probable hope, the unsuccessful aspirant may console himself, by saying,

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In the lapse of eventful years since I first took upon me (in 1799) to give a partial Reprint of such of Phillips's Characters as regarded English Poets, I have matured my judgment, and perhaps extended my knowlege of poetry; but I have made little progress in it by any compositions of my own. My spirits have been too much distracted, and my hopes too much lowered. I blame myself severely for this: it is the property of that grandeur of mind to which every poetical writer ought to aspire, not to be cast down by prejudice, envy, malice, injustice, or wrong! It was the glory of Lord Byron that attempts to sink him only drew forth his strength. Dauntless perseverance will even confer power, where before it was doubtful! The effect of progressive industry is miraculous! And what is criticism? and from whom does it commonly proceed? From the author's most bitter enemy, or most confirmed rival, protected by a mask! from the mercenary hireling of some publisher in a contrary commercial interest! from some political or provincial adversary! No one therefore ought ever to allow himself to be sunk, or deeply affected by it. But however few have been the poets endowed with sufficient genius to merit success, it is probable that at least one half of them have been nipped in the hud, and condemned to silence, by these sorts of criticism.